for you,’ he whispered and, almost as though she had heard, she suddenly turned to smile at him. He gave a small wave, she nodded, and in a moment was gone from his sight.
Hurrying to the taxi rank, he climbed into the first cab in the line. ‘Where to, sir?’ The cabbie was a rough-and-ready fella, going grey and slow in his step. Tom couldn’t help but notice the long scar running down the side of his face. ‘Got from running wild as a kid,’ he explained, anticipating Tom’s curiosity. ‘I’ve an interesting tattoo of a snake an’ all –’ he gave a hearty laugh – ‘but you wouldn’t want to know about that.’ Opening the cab door, he gave a cheeky wink. ‘I were drunk at the time … regretted it ever since.’
His imagination running riot, Tom didn’t dare ask. ‘We’ve all done things we regret,’ he answered with a friendly smile.
‘Not you! A man like yousel’? By! I should think you’ve got the world at your feet.’ When Tom made no comment he closed the cab door and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘It might help if I knew where I were going,’ he quipped good-naturedly.
Having given him the address of his flat in Hammersmith, Tom leaned back in his seat. He suddenly felt incredibly weary … tired of his job; tired of trying to piece together his life. Tired of being so alone.
The cabbie discreetly regarded him through his mirror. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, guv, you look like you could do with a good night’s sleep.’ Suddenly swerving to avoid a delivery boy on his bicycle, he let loose a volley of abuse at the rider. ‘Watch where you’re going, mate!’ Leaning out the window, he screamed at the frightened fellow, who had done nothing wrong. ‘If you’re fed up wi’ life, throw yousel’ off a bleedin’ railway bridge!’
Having been flung clear across the seat, Tom righted himself and sat tight.
Completely oblivious to the chaos he’d caused, the cabbie asked, ‘Away on business, was you?’
‘Yes,’ Tom acknowledged.
‘I expect you glad to be ’ome, eh?’
‘Right again.’ But what was he coming home to? No family. No real home, and nothing worthwhile to look forward to. His life was work and more work. These past weeks he had been seriously wondering if he should give it all up. Now, as the idea loomed large in his thoughts, it seemed to overwhelm everything else.
‘What is it you do?’ the cabbie asked.
‘I’m one of three architects in a big development organisation. We build office blocks, factories, large housing developments, that sort of thing. There’s never two jobs the same.’ Wasn’t it strange, he thought, how you naturally imparted your business to a cabbie. Probably it was because you never expected to see him again.
Turning a corner, the cabbie grinned at him through the mirror. ‘By! You must lead an exciting life? Plenty to build an’ all, now the country’s back on its feet.’
Lapsing into silence, Tom let him chat on.
‘I’ve allus wanted to travel, but never had the time nor money. I’ve got six kids and a wife who spends like money’s gone outta fashion. I work six days a week, from seven of a morning till late at night. What chance ’ave I got to see the bleedin’ world, eh?’
He gave a loud, raucous laugh. ‘Matter o’ fact, I can never understand where I found the time to make all them bloody kids! Come to think of it, I can’t even remember enjoying mesel at it, neither!’ Taking his eyes off the road to peer through the mirror at Tom, he added, ‘D’you know what, matey? I’ve often wondered how many o’ them kids belong to that smarmy bleedin’ milkman!’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a lucky man.’ In truth, Tom envied him.
‘Oh! You reckon, do you?’ Astonished, the cabbie afforded himself another glance at his passenger. ‘Here’s me … a poor ol’ chap, working all hours God sends, and like as not them two having it off behind my back. An’ you say I’m a lucky man?’ He laughed aloud. ‘Hey! Happen you’re right. Happen he should tek her an’ the kids off me ’ands, and leave me to enjoy mesel.’
Tom defended his comment. ‘What I meant was … any man who’s got a wife and children who love you … has to be a lucky man.’
‘Ah! But how do I know if they’re my kids?’ His tone grew serious. ‘No man likes being cheated on.’
Sensing the cabbie’s abrupt change of mood, Tom wisely avoided being drawn into the subject too far. ‘Look! The traffic’s building up.’ He gestured to the road ahead, and the many vehicles vying for space. Since petrol rationing had ended, traffic had increased.
Swinging his taxi round a crawling trolleybus, the cabbie cursed, ‘Bleedin’ drivers! At least we’ve seen the last of the trams!’
Having got in front of the trolleybus, he refocused his curious gaze on Tom. ‘It’s a busy time o’ day, as you must well know, guv … you living ’ere an’ all that.’
After a while the cabbie lapsed into a pensive mood, and it wasn’t long before they reached Hammersmith. ‘’Ere we are, guv!’
Drawing his cab into the kerb outside a large, handsome building, the cabbie remarked with a whistle of appreciation, ‘Nice flats these … cost a pretty penny too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He clicked his tongue in admiration. ‘I wouldn’t mind living in a posh place like this … all on me own where the brats and the missus can’t find me.’
Climbing out, Tom had his fare at the ready, which he handed to the driver, together with a generous tip, and a word of friendly advice. ‘You wouldn’t like it,’ he said. ‘You’d be lonelier than you can ever imagine.’
His words appeared to hit home, because suddenly the cabbie was deeply thoughtful. ‘You could be right,’ he answered. ‘Besides, what about that bleedin’ milkman, eh? If I weren’t there to keep an eye on him, Gawd knows what he’d be getting up to wi’ my missus!’ His loud raucous laugh echoed down the street. ‘By! He’d want to be delivering more than the milk … if he ain’t done already!’
Shaking his head, and with a wide grin on his face, Tom watched him drive off.
He was still chuckling as he entered the lift; though by the time he had reached his flat on the sixth floor the smile had slipped and the same idea that had haunted him these past weeks began to invade his thoughts again. ‘It’s time,’ he murmured. There was no doubt in his mind now. ‘Time to leave it all behind.’
Letting himself into the luxurious, soulless place that he now called home, he felt a wave of relief that the decision was made. ‘I need to get away from London … and all the bad memories.’ If he didn’t leave soon, he suspected he might go crazy.
After a bath to wash the grime of the journey from his bones, he threw pyjamas and a robe on, poured himself a whisky and soda and stood looking out of the window. In the growing twilight, silhouetted against a moody sky, the skyline of London was a mesmerising sight.
When the weariness took a hold, he threw off his robe, climbed into bed, and fell into a long, fitful sleep.
Though even now, there was no respite from the shocking memories. Day or night, asleep or awake, they were etched on his soul.
